Green Hardback Suitcases

Ever since I can remember, running was my instinct. I used to have this green hardback suitcase that was almost big enough for me to crawl into and disappear. I had the need to run. Many times I would crawl under my bed and pull it out. I’d pack it up with crackers and blankets, everything I believed would be necessary for my escape. I’d sneak out the back gate and hide in a corridor near my neighbors avocado tree. That’s as far as I ever got, though. I always wanted to run, but I sat there with wet eyes because I never knew where to go. I never knew where I’d belong. Eventually I’d drag my suitcase back up the driveway and slip it back under to my bed; desperate to breathe from the many suspected voyages, desperate to collect dust as I collected myself. I suspect there are still marks on that hardwood floor from the dragging promises of release, and the disappointed replacement. I know the marks still exist in me.

Ever since I can remember I had an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, the need for home. My only problem was that I had never left, save for my green suitcase corridor adventures. I remember my first house. I remember the hole where our neighbor raccoon sought refuge under our house, the split tree in the front yard where I practiced my gymnastics, the tin roof of my parents’ room that drew me to tears as it sang the most beautiful melody while the sky cried. I can recall the window I had broken in a fit of rage. I can still see my hideaway, my corridor, my secrets. I remember my first house, but I could never call it home.

And what of the second? That must have been my home. I regrettably shake my head as I recall this place. The resting spot of my first pet, first bike, first broken friendship. The grounds so swollen with my tears. I can see myself racing home in the middle of the night after I had been tormented at a sleepover. I can see myself lighting candles over my pets’ vigil. The ground may be watered with my salty tears, but this is not my ground, this is not my home.

The third, fourth, fifth. Same sad reality. I can see the joy. I remember coming home the first time I had felt the sheen of sweat of a nervous boys’ hand. I’ve kept my first rose pressed inside a yearbook. I still have notes regarding my high school crush. But I can still feel my burning knees skid across the ground, my burning cheek introduced to a new side of my mothers’ hand, my burning wrists as I attempted to escape it all. And feeling something is more powerful than all the joyous distant memories one could clamor up. These places were never my home, nor are they now. I still long for that place.

How can I be homesick for a place I’ve never known? As a little girl I remember longing for somewhere I could call my own. I loved my family, but that was not my place. I discovered that time and time again. I’ve moved three thousand miles and still feel as far away and as lost as I was when I reached under my bed for a safe haven.

Ever since I can remember, running was my instinct. But my suitcase has long since fallen apart, my corridor is a lifetime away, my heart is broken, and I’ve yet to locate the harbor.

Carnival Rides

Never once did we ever walk alone,
Never once did you leave us on our own.
You are faithful, God you are faithful

Am I alone? Sometimes it really feels like it. I mean I can be surrounded by people, but I don’t think they get it. Do they feel alone? Have they ever? Is anyone else lost? I feel like I’m sitting on cold concrete. I am alone and tired and I’m trying to be brave but I’m running out of courage. And I feel so very invisible, so very lost, insecure, and left behind.

Never once did you ever walk alone

I wonder how I can sing that if I don’t believe it. And I taste the words as I allow myself to digest them I wonder if this is true. Why do I still feel so alone though? Am I making a liar of myself by professing these words? I wish I could believe that I’ve never been alone – oh how I hope that it’s true. I mean I’m not saying sometimes haven’t been fun, but how is that I’ve been in this place for so long?

It’s like being lost at the fair. It’s fun at first – you ride the rides and eat a bunch of fried food, see some shows. But eventually the crowd will clear. You’ll be out of tickets and have a wicked belly ache and you’ll be alone. The ferris-wheel slowly stops spinning, the carny’s wipe off their makeup and it’s quiet, save for the bleating of the sheep. As they begin to shut off the lights you don’t know if you should cry or scream. Scream I tell you, SCREAM. But by the time you decide – you don’t bother. It’s too late. No one is going to hear you. So you sit down, alone in the dark, lifeless midway – listening to the barely audible clamor of the animals, who from what you can tell have more purpose in their lives that you – and you pray, to whatever god may be listening, that someone will find you tomorrow.

Never once did you leave me on my own

But what if they don’t? What if they don’t come tomorrow? How can I expect to be found when I don’t even know where I am? Or who I am, for that matter? I’m so far from where I “need” to be… wherever that is.

You are faithful
God, You are faithful

And for now, that’s all I have:
The faith that I will be found tomorrow.